Floral Poetry. 
223 
Thou, who send’st it forth alone 
To the cold and sullen season 
(Like a thought at random thrown), 
Sent it thus for some grave reason ! 
If ’twere but to pierce the mind 
With a single gentle thought, 
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind ? 
Who that thou hast vainly wrought? 
Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
From the Snowdrop—reader wise ! 
Good is good, wherever taught, 
On the ground or in the skies ! 
Barry Cornwall. 
TO THE SNOWDROP. 
L IKE pendent flakes of vegetating snow, 
The early herald of the infant year, 
Ere yet the adventurous Crocus dares to blow, 
Beneath the orchard boughs thy buds appear. 
While still the cold north-east ungenial lours, 
And scarce the Hazel in the leafless copse 
Or Sallows show their downy powdered flowers, 
The grass is spangled with thy silver drops. 
Yet when those pallid blossoms shall give place 
To countless tribes, of richer hue and scent, 
Summer’s gay blooms, and Autumn’s yellow race, 
I shall thy pale inodorous bells lament. 
So journeying onward in life’s varying track, 
Ev’n while warm youth its bright illusion lends, 
Fond memory often with regret looks back 
To childhood’s pleasures, and to infant friends. 
Charlotte Smith. 
